be brought forward without betraying a con- | meeting again at your party," turning to fidence, or in some respect saying what should not be said." "Ah!" cried Captain Harville, in a tone of strong feeling, "if I could but make you comprehend what a man suffers when he takes a last look at his wife and children, and watches the boat that he has sent them off in, as long as it is in sight, and then turns away and says, 'God knows whether we shall ever meet again!' And then if I could convey to you the glow of his soul when he does see them again when, coming back after a twelvemonth's absence perhaps, and obliged to put into another port, he calculates how soon it may be possible to get them there, pretending to deceive himself, and saying, They cannot be here till such a day,' but all the while hoping for them twelve hours sooner, and seeing them arrive at last, as if Heaven had given them wings, by many hours sooner still! If I could explain to you all this, and all that a man can bear and do, and glories to do, for the sake of these treasures of his existence! I speak, you know, only of such men as have hearts!" pressing his own with emotion. . "Oh!" cried Anne, eagerly, "I hope I do justice to all that is felt by you, and by those who resemble you. God forbid that I should undervalue the warm and faithful feelings of any of my fellow-creatures! I should deserve utter contempt if I dared to suppose that true attachment and constancy were known only by woman. No; I believe you capable of everything great and good in your married lives. I believe you equal to every important exertion, and to every domestic forbearance, so long as if may be allowed the expression -so long as you have an object. I mean, while the woman you love lives, and lives for you. All the privilege I claim for my own sex (it is not a very enviable one: you need not covet it) is that of loving longest when, existence or when hope is gone." She could not immediately have uttered another sentence; her heart was too full, her breath too much oppressed. Anne. "We had your sister's card yesterday, and I understood Frederick had a card too, though I did not see it; and you are disengaged, Frederick, are you not, as well as ourselves?" Captain Wentworth was folding up a letter in great haste, and either could not or would not answer fully. "Yes," said he, "very true; here we separate, but Harville and I shall soon be after you that is, Harville, if you are ready; I am in half a minute. I know you will not be sorry to be off.” Mrs. Croft left them, and Captain Wentworth, having sealed his letter with great rapidity, was indeed ready, and had even a hurried, agitated air, which showed impatience to be gone. Anne knew not how to understand it. She had the kindest "Good morning, God bless you!" from Captain Harville, but from him not a word, nor a look. He had passed out of the room without a look. She had only time, however, to move closer to the table where he had been writing when footsteps were heard returning; the door opened; it was himself. He begged their pardon, but he had forgotten his gloves, and instantly crossing the room to the writing-table, and standing with his back towards Mrs. Musgrove, he drew out a letter from under the scattered paper, placed it before Anne with eyes of glowing entreaty fixed on her, and hastily collecting his gloves, was again out of the room almost before Mrs. Musgrove was aware of his being in it-the work of an instant. The revolution which one instant had made in Anne was almost beyond expression. The letter, with a direction hardly legible, to "Miss A. E," was evidently the one which he had been folding so hastily. While supposed to be writing only to Captain Benwick he had been also addressing her. On the contents of that letter depended all which this world could de for her. Anything was possible, anything might be defied rather than suspense. Mrs. Musgrove had little arrangements of her ow at her own table; to their protection she must trust, and, sinking into the chair which he had occupied, succeeding to the very spot where he had leaned and written, her eyes devoured the following words: "I can listen no longer in silence. I must speak to you by such means as are within my reach. You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope. Tell me not that I am too late, that such precious feelings are gone for ever. I offer myself to you again with a heart even more your own than when you almost broke it | words to Captain Wentworth in the course of eight years and a half ago. Dare not say that man forgets sooner than woman, that his love has an earlier death. I have loved none but you. Unjust I may have been, weak and resentful I have been, but never inconstant. You alone have brought me to Bath. For you alone I think and plan. Have you not seen this? Can you fail to have understood my wishes? I had not waited even these ten days could I have read your feelings, as I think you must have penetrated mine. I can hardly write. I am every instant hearing something which overpowers me. You sink your voice, but I can distinguish the tones of that voice when they would be lost on others. Too good, too excellent creature! You do us justice, indeed. You do believe that there is true attachment and constancy among men. Believe it to be most fervent, most undeviating F. W. "I must go, uncertain of my fate; but I shall return hither, or follow your party, as soon as possible. A word, a look, will be enough to decide whether I enter your father's house this evening or never. her quiet, solitary progress up the town (and she felt almost certain of meeting him) could not be borne. The chair was earnestly protested against, and Mrs. Musgrove, who thought only of one sort of illness, having assured herself with some anxiety that there had been no fall in the case, that Anne had not at any time lately slipped down and got a blow on her head, that she was perfectly convinced of having had no fall, could part with her cheerfully, and depend on finding her better at night. in Such a letter was not to be soon recovered from. Half an hour's solitude and reflection might have tranquillized her; but the ten minutes only which now passed before she was interrupted, with all the restraints of her situation, could do nothing towards tranquillity. Every moment rather brought fresh agitation. It was an overpowering happiness. And before she was beyond the first stage of full sensation, Charles, Mary, and Henrietta all came in. The absolute necessity of seeming like herself produced then an immediate struggle; but after a while she could do no more. She began not to understand a word they said, and was obliged to plead indisposition and excuse her self. They could then see that she looked very ill, were shocked and concerned, and would not stir without her for the world. dreadful. Would they only have gone away and left her in the quiet possession of that room it would have been her cure; but to have them all standing or waiting around her was distracting, and in desperation she said she would go home. This was By all means, my dear," cried Mrs. Musgrove, "go home directly, and take care of yourself, that you may be fit for the evening. I wish Sarah was here to doctor you, but I am Do doctor myself. Charles, ring and order a chair. She must not walk." But the chair would never do. Worse than all. To lose the possibility of speaking two Another momentary vexation occurred. Charles, in his real concern and good nature, would go home with her; there was no preventing him. This was almost cruel. But she could not be long ungrateful; he was sacrificing an engagement at a gunsmith's to be of use to her; and she set off with him, with no feeling but gratitude apparent. They were in Union Street, when a quicker step behind, a something of familiar sound, gave her two moments' preparation for the sight of Captain Wentworth. He joined them; but, as if irresolute whether to join or to pass on, said nothing, only looked. Anne could command herself enough to receive that look, and not repulsively. The cheeks which had been pale now glowed, and the movements which had hesitated were decided. He walked by her side. Presently, struck by a sudden thought, Charles said "Captain Wentworth, which way are you going? Only to Gay Street, or farther up the town?" "I hardly know," replied Captain Wentworth, surprised. "Are you going as high as Belmont? Are you going near Camden Place? Because, if you are, I shall have no scruple in asking you to take my place, and give Anne your arm to her father's door. She is rather done for this morning, and must not go so far without help, and I ought to be at that fellow's in the Market Place. He promised me the sight of a capital gun he is just going to send off; said he would keep it unpacked to the last possible moment, that I might see it; and if I do not turn back now, I have no chance. By his description it is a good deal like the second sized doublebarrel of mine which you shot with one day round Winthrop." There could not be an objection. There could be only a most proper alacrity, a most obliging compliance for public view; and smiles reined in and spirits dancing in private rapture. In half a minute Charles was at the bottom of Union Street again, and the other two proceed Sir Walter, indeed, though he had no affeetion for Anne, and no vanity flattered, to make from thinking it a bad match for her. On the contrary, when he saw more of Captain Wentworth, saw him repeatedly by daylight, and eyed him well, he was very much struck by his personal claims, and felt that his superiority of appearance might be not unfairly balanced against her superiority of rank; and all this, assisted by his well-sounding name, enabled Sir Walter at last to prepare his pen, with a very good grace, for the insertion of the mar riage in the volume of honour. ing together; and soon words enough had passed | small part of the share of ten thousand pounds between them to decide their direction towards which must be hers hereafter. the comparatively quiet and retired gravel walk, where the power of conversation would make the present hour a blessing indeed, and pre-him really happy on the occasion, was very far pare it for all the immortality which the happiest recollections of their own future lives could bestow. There they exchanged again those feelings and those promises which had once before seemed to secure everything, but which had been followed by so many, many years of division and estrangement. There they returned again into the past, more exquisitely happy, perhaps, in their reunion than when it had been first projected; more tender, more tried, more fixed in a knowledge of each other's character, truth, and attachment; more equal to act, more justified in acting. And there, as they slowly paced the gradual ascent, heedless of every group around them, seeing neither sauntering politicians, bustling housekeepers, flirting girls, nor nursery-maids and children, they could indulge in those retrospections and acknowledgments, and especially in those explanations of what had directly preceded the present moment, which were so poignant and so ceaseless in interest. All the little variations of the last week were gone through; and of yesterday and to-day there could scarcely be an end. Who can be in doubt of what followed? When any two young people take it into their heads to marry, they are pretty sure by perseverance to carry their point, be they ever so poor, or ever so imprudent, or ever so little likely to be necessary to each other's ultimate comfort. This may be bad morality to conclude with, but I believe it to be truth; and if such parties succeed, how should a Captain Wentworth and an Anne Elliot, with the advantage of maturity of mind, consciousness of right, and one independent fortune between them, fail of bearing down every opposition? They might, in fact, have borne down a great deal more than they met with, for there was little to distress them beyond the want of graciousness and warmth. Sir Walter made no objection, and Elizabeth did nothing worse than look cold and unconcerned. Captain Wentworth, with five-and-twenty thousand pounds, and as high in his profession as merit and activity could place him, was no longer nobody. He was now esteemed quite worthy to address the daughter of a foolish, spendthrift baronet, who had not had principle or sense enough to maintain himself in the situation in which Providence had placed him, and who could give his daughter at present but a Of all the family, Mary was probably the one most immediately gratified by the circumstance. It was creditable to have a sister mar ried, and she might flatter herself with having been greatly instrumental to the connection by keeping Anne with her in the autumn; and a her own sister must be better than her hus band's sisters, it was very agreeable that Captain Wentworth should be a richer man than either Captain Benwick or Charles Hayter. She had something to suffer, perhaps, when they came into contact again, in seeing Anne restored to the rights of seniority, and the mis tress of a very pretty landaulette; but she had a future to look forward to of powerful consolation. Anne had no Uppercross Hall before her, no landed estate, no headship of a family; and if they could but keep Captain Wentworth from being made a baronet, she would n change situations with Anne. TO CELIA. Drink to me only with thine eyes, And I'll not look for wine. I would not change for thine. I sent thee late a rosy wreath, Not so much honouring thee, It could not withered be; Since when it grows, and smells, I swear, BEN JONSON. THE FIRST FROST OF AUTUMN. [Samuel Griswold Goodrich, born at Ridgefield, Connecticut, 19th August, 1793; died in New York, 9th May, 1860. Although few will recognize this name, every one will know the author as "Peter Parley," a pseudonym which he assumed early in his career, and which became familiar in every home in Europe and America. He wrote and edited about one hundred and seventy volumes, consisting chiefly of works for the young, and comprising poems, tales, historical and scientific manuals, and school-books. It should be observed that the name "Peter Parley" was often unfurly used on the title-pages of books with which Mr. Goodrich had nothing to do. In his Recollections of a Lifetime, or Men and Things I have Seen (New York, 1858), he presented an interesting catalogue of his own works and of the "spurious Parley books." Of his poetry one critic says, "His style is simple and unaffected; the flow of his verse melodious; and his subjects generally such as he is capable of treating most successfully."] At evening it rose in the hollow glade, Where wild flowers blushed 'mid silence and shade; Of the whispering reed by the brook was mute. With a lover's sigh, and a zephyr's breath, It whispered bliss, but its work was death: It kissed the lip of a rose asleep, And left it there on its stem to weep: It froze the drop on a lily's leaf, And the shivering blossom was bowed in grief. O'er the gentian it breathed, and the withered flower The Frost Spirit went, like the lover light, Its wing was plumed by the moon's cold ray, And noiseless it flew o'er the hills away. It flew, yet its dallying fingers played, With a thrilling touch, through the maple's shade; It bound them all in its silvery spell. Who dreamed that the morning's light would speak, With their glowing hues what the night concealed. Though tell-tale colours were over them cast. Bore a purple tinge o'er its leafy fold, VIRTUE. The triumphs that on vice attend As aromatic plants bestow No spicy fragrance while they grow; OLIVER GOLDSMITH. SCOTTISH WIT AND HUMOUR. [The Very Rev. Edward Bannerman Ramsay, M.A., LL.D., F.R.S. E., born 31st January, 1793. He graduated at St. John's College, Cambridge; was some time curate of Rodden-cum-Buckland, Somersetshire; removed to Edinburgh in 1824, and six years later he became incumbent of St. John's. In 1841 he was made Dean of Edinburgh, and in that office he has remained for more than thirty years, doing good work for the church and for society. He has thrice refused a bishopric; but the church had no honours to confer upon him equal to those which his own genius and benevolence have won for him. One of his early, and not least important, labours was the foundation of the Church Society, for the benefit of the poorer rural clergyman; and the Free Kirk found in this society a model for its sustentation fund. Whilst zealously occupied with the affairs of his diocese and with numerous philan thropical schemes, he also gave much attention to literature, and, besides many sermons and miscellaneous pamphlets, published A Memoir of Sir J. B. Smith, with a notice of his botanical works; A Manual of Catechetical Instruction; Lectures on the Genius and Works of Handel: On the Social Influence of Railways; A Memoir of Dr. Chalmers; On the Canon Law of the Church; The Christian Life, its Origin, Progress, and Perfection; Pulpit Table-Talk, &c. &c. But foremost amongst all his literary labours is the Reminiscences of Scottish Life and Character, now in its twentieth edition. This work has done more than anything since Scott wrote to sustain an interest in Scottish folk and dialect; and it possesses a high historical value in its photographs of national characteristics, many of which have entirely disappeared, whilst others are fast disappearing. The varieties of Scottish life have never been painted by a kindlier or a more faithful hand.] My readers need not be afraid that they are to be led through a labyrinth of metaphysical distinctions between wit and humour. I have read Dr. Campbell's dissertation on the difference in his Philosophy of Rhetoric; I have read Sydney Smith's two lectures: but I confess I am not much the wiser. Professors of rhetoric, no doubt, must have such discussions, but when you wish to be amused by the thing itself, it is somewhat disappointing to be presented with metaphysical analysis. It is like instituting an examination of the glass and cork of a champagne bottle, and a chemical testing of the wine. In the very process the volatile and sparkling draught which was to delight the palate, has become like ditch-water, vapid and dead. What I mean is, that, call it wit or humour, or what you please, there is a school of Scottish pleasantry, amusing and 1 It was Dean Ramsay who inspired the movement for the erection of a monument to Dr. Chalmers: and the first meeting for that object was held in the dean's house, 30th November, 1869. characteristic beyond all other. Don't think of analyzing its nature, or the qualities of which it is composed; enjoy its quaint and amusing flow of oddity and fun; as we may, for instance, suppose it to have flowed on that eventful night so joyously described by Burns: "The souter tauld his queerest stories, The landlord's laugh was ready chorus." Or we may think of the delight it gave the good Mr. Balwhidder, when he tells, in his Annals of the Parish, of some such story, that it was a "jocosity that was just a kittle to hear." When I speak of changes in such Scottish humour which have taken place, I refer to a particular sort of humour, and I speak of the sort of feeling that belongs to Scottish pleaSantry, which is sly, and cheery, and pawky. It is undoubtedly a humour that depends a good deal upon the vehicle in which the story is conveyed. If, as we have said, our quaint dialect is passing away, and our national ecentric points of character, we must expect to find much of the peculiar humour allied with them to have passed away also. In other de partments of wit and repartee, and acute hits at men and things, Scotchmen (whatever Sydney Smith may have said to the contrary are equal to their neighbours, and, so far as I know, may have gained rather than lost. But this peculiar humour of which I now speak has not, in our day, the scope and development which were permitted to it by the former generation. Where the tendency exists, the exercise of it is kept down by the usages and full force at any rate) we must go back to a feelings of society. For examples of it (in its has occurred to me in regard to the specimens race who are departed. One remark, however, we have of this kind of humour-viz., that they do not always proceed from the wit or the cleverness of any of the individuals concerned in them. circumstances, from the concurrence or comThe amusement comes from the bination of the ideas, and in many cases from the mere expressions which describe the facts. The humour of the narrative is unquestionable, and yet no one has tried to be humorous. In short, it is the Scottishness that gives the zest. have no point at all. The same ideas differently expounded might There is, for example, something highly original in the notions of Scottish Fife lass regarding the theory of celestial mechanics entertained by an honest comets. Having occasion to go out after dark, and having observed the brilliant comet then visible (1858), she ran in with breathless haste to the house, calling on her fellow-servants to |